


Fig Sidecar

by LadyLazarus



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Bartenders, Fluff, M/M, Professors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 04:55:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLazarus/pseuds/LadyLazarus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amanda (twerkbrien) had a really great prompt and I was procrastinating.</p><p>Basically Stiles is a super swanky cocktail bartender and Derek finds himself going back over and over. Fluff ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fig Sidecar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rocketmeaway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocketmeaway/gifts).



Stiles isn’t quite sure if the bar he works at should be called a speakeasy. It’s a little pretentious and possibly historically inaccurate and sometimes his boss calls it a cocktail lounge which is somehow even worse. He doesn’t want to be called a mixologist or a barkeep. If he had his way, he’d probably have his title be “tasty fucking drink guy.”

Because that’s what he does – make tasty fucking drinks.

Stiles had fallen sideways into bartending to be honest. At first it was a love of a food, caring for his dad after his mom passed away. When he discovered the better programming on the Food Network and the Cooking Channel, it turned into experimentation and exploration. Mac and cheese wasn’t mac and cheese anymore. He couldn’t look at the dairy section of the supermarket, instead turning to iGourmet for imported Reggiano. Some things failed of course (we don’t talk about the Worcestershire incident), but he got better and better. He started to make food for fun, desserts and snacks and complicated, traditional seven-course meals that had Scott, his best friend, moaning under the table by the fifth. So when he was 21, Stiles’ exploits turned to the last frontier: cocktails.

Tonight had a chill about it. It wasn’t quite raining, but no one’s hair was safe either and it was best not to where white. The dim lighting of the sconces along the exposed brick walls cast shadows between the patrons, all the epitome of class or hipster foodie.

He wasn’t one to brag, but damn if Stiles’ cocktails didn’t pull a crowd on Friday nights. He didn’t want to give them weird names or name them after celebrities, they just were what they were. The regulars knew Stiles, knew the way he always smiled watching the glass rinser spray the insides of the glasses, knew how he’d be in laid if he could instead of the loose-sleeved white shirt and vest with pocket watch, knew how he always looked at the door as if he were waiting for _that someone_.

Tonight though, Derek walked into the bar. Turned the other way, Stiles’ shook out a bruised gimlet into a cocktail glass, passing it to the old man with ease. When he caught Derek’s gaze, he faltered with his customary smile. Jesus this guy was hot.

“So what’ll it be?” The collected sprinkles of water on Derek’s hair dripped down his nose and he wiped them away, determinedly pulling his gaze away from Stiles.

“Um, just a rum and coke I think.” Stiles looked boggled for only a second before laughing big and loud.

“Oh c’mon man! Let’s get you a big boy drink,” Stiles put his elbows on the bar, resting his chin on his hands. “What do you like? Sour, sweet, bitter, spicy, salty?”

Flustered, Derek pulled out a barstool and sat down, shaking out his jacket before draping it over the back. “Uh I guess I like sweet and sour. Bitter’s ok too as long it’s not really bitter. I don’t like licorice stuff at all though.”

Stiles smirked, rocking back on his heels. “I can work with that.” He set about making the drink as Derek watched him. He couldn’t look away from the way Stiles spun the long-stemmed sour glass in his hand like a drumstick before concocting some kind of potion in a shaker. With a couple swirls, he strained the cloudy, rust-amber liquid into the glass and presented it to him on a thin coaster.

“Tell me what you think.” He busied himself wiping up the bar, trying not to intimidate Derek into some kind of response. He looked… cute. Nervous, like he actually cared what a stranger thought of his drink.

Derek raised the glass to his lips, taking a delicate sip in case it was really strong. Well, it _was_ strong, but smooth. Not too sweet but richer than he thought it could feel on his tongue.

“So?”

Derek paused trying to form words for this pure artistry. “It’s impeccable. I have no idea what to call it, but it is amazing.” The bartender relaxed, breathing out air he probably wasn’t holding on purpose.

“Oh good. It’s a new thing. I was looking for the perfect person to try it out on. It’s a fig sidecar. Cognac though.”

“You lost me at fig. I didn’t think I liked figs at all! No it’s really great, it feels really heavy, but like, in a good way. I love it.”

Stiles’ smile stretched big across his face. “Good! I’m glad. Um, so do you wanna open a tab or?”

“Oh, here. Keep it open.” Derek passed along his credit card, replacing his wallet as Stiles turned to the register.

“Here you go Mr. Hale.”

“Derek. Call me Derek.” Stiles nodded, turning to a waitress putting in an order.

He watched him work as he drank his sidecar. Stiles was in his own world when he was crafting drinks. He didn’t rely on the flair bartending that had become so popular with trendy places. He just put together awesome flavors in a glass and sent them on their way to thirsty customers. When he noticed Derek getting low, he made his way back over and lounged across the mahogany.

“Sorry about that, they come in waves. I’m Stiles. Do you want another?”

“Yeah, but something different? You look like you can make some pretty cool things.”

“That I can!” He sprung back and started to mix things in a slim Collins glass, slipping in a twist of some citrus peel and a couple leaves of some herb. He laced it in front of Derek, announcing with hands on his hips “A grapefruit-sage Collins for you good sir.”

Derek gave it a raving review and Stiles set about filling more orders, contented.

They kept going like that, Derek watching Stiles work while he returned with amazing drink after amazing drink (“Try this one! Strawberry-balsamic gastrique and vodka.” “Have you ever had ginger ale made from fresh ginger? With dark rum and mint?” “Do you know what a bellini is? I make it with a special puree.”)

The night passed more quickly than Derek thought. He’d brought papers to grade from the freshman seminar he was teaching, but instead he found himself marveling at this bartender, tucked away making the best cocktails he’d ever had.

The next night, Derek found himself standing outside the “speakeasy” again. Before he could talk himself out it, he rushed in and sat himself down at the bar. Stiles positively beamed at him when he noticed.

“Got an idea of what you want now?”

“Nope. It’s more fun as a surprise anyway. Whatever you want Stiles.”

Between waves of patrons and waitresses, they got to talking about their lives. Stiles told him about how he’d gotten into food and drink and fell in love with cocktails. Derek told him how he went from being the hot shot business man to being asked to guest lecture at NYU and then somehow falling in love with teaching students and pursuing that instead.

Derek started to come in every night (except Thursdays, which Stiles had off), and every night was something new to accompany a new cocktail from Stiles (“Know what you want?” “Something fun, Stiles!”). Next to an amaretto sour, Derek talked about being on his own with his sister since he was a kid. Pouring a gin fizz, Stiles told him about leaving everyone in California and feeling really alone for the first time since his mom died. While knocking the ice around his old fashioned, Derek told him about his most outrageous students while Stiles answered with his rowdiest customers as he shook a daiquiri.

Sometimes they didn’t talk at all, when Derek came in with frazzled hair and a stack of papers. Stiles always tended to serve him warm cocktails in snifters. Hot toddies made their way to the bar and irish coffees and the knots in Derek’s shoulders smoothed out each time Stiles squeezed his shoulder in welcoming. On those nights when Stiles asked what Derek wanted, he usually got “competent freshmen” as his answer.

Somehow the bar even made its way into Derek’s dreams, as if it had some magic presence, filling his every waking moment. They weren’t sexual, just comforting and warm. He felt the leather cushion on the wooden barstool and the mirror behind the shelves of liqueurs and liquors reflect the orange light from the frosted sconces on the walls. He felts Stiles’ smile on him. He felt lucky to know Stiles, to start getting to know the regulars like Deaton that ran the nearest vet’s office and Deucalion who may or may not be in the mafia.

He started to use the bar as an example in his business institutions classes and somehow that felt like he was breaking a policy regarding underage drinking. He felt like Stiles grounded him nowadays in this increasingly hectic world he operated in.

Stiles opened him up in a way that made it so much easier to hold office hours and talk to his students. They weren’t afraid to say hello in the halls or send him a quick email asking about liquid assets or revenue. It felt good.

On nights like this when they were whispering confessions to each other over swizzle sticks and maraschino cherries, Derek couldn’t understand how Stiles felt. Well actually, he could, he knew exactly what it felt like to be empty and alone among millions of people, but Derek couldn’t comprehend how that could be a feeling Stiles would have.

Stiles was so open! So warm and genuine. He knew to bruise Ennis’ martinis and to make them extra dirty despite how much it really offended Stiles’ sense of taste. He would put extra cherries in the dirty shirleys he handed girls that came in, complimenting them on their shoes. On colder, wetter nights, he forced the owner to discount hot cocktails for the shivering masses. People knew Stiles. They asked him about his online games and how his dad was holding up in California. How could Stiles not feel like he was loved? Like he had community? He made it for himself.

So tonight when Stiles went to wordlessly make Derek another drink, he interrupted him.

“Stiles, I think I want…” he paused, unsure. Stiles lowered the highball to the counter, turning with arms crossed.

“Finally know what drink you want, Derek?” he said with a smile, despite the drawn expression he had just had in conversation with Derek.

Steeling himself, Derek straightened up in his seat and braced himself on the bar. “I want you.”

“Finally.” and like that, Stiles was stretched over the bar with a fist in Derek’s tie, pulling him into a hot kiss, other hand sliding through the short hair on the back of Derek’s head.

As he watched Stiles make a fig sidecar he thought that for the first time since he opened the door to a random and pretentiously named “speakeasy,” Derek Hale knew he was going to be happy.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr as [Foolproofpoem](http://foolproofpoem.tumblr.com).


End file.
